Alternate Virtues
by Nemo the Everbeing
Summary: Seven vignettes proving once and for all that Len is no saint. Some are happy, some sad. Some are funny, some are serious, and all revolve around a SpockMcCoy relationship. Those readers who don't want to read that may turn away now.


Title: Alternate Virtues

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: R for SMUT!

Summary: Len's no saint. A series of vignettes, some happy, some sad, some funny, some serious, but all detailing the little things about Len and Spock. Eleventh-wave challenge to write a story about the seven virtues.

Prudence

"So, how's it going?" Len asked, leaning over Spock. He was far too close to be decorous, and Spock considered telling him to step back. Their flirtation on-duty was one thing, but this escalation was something he thought should be regulated, or at least kept in some sort of check. It was unprofessional. What they did behind closed doors should not be laid bare for the perusal of the entire bridge staff.

"I have been monitoring the asteroid for the past eighteen hours. There is no change," Spock said.

"Eighteen hours? Even for a Vulcan, that's a lot," McCoy said. He was attempting to tell Spock something, but the Vulcan refused to listen.

"It is what has been required to properly monitor this asteroid, Doctor," he said.

"Uh-huh."

"It is my occupation, Doctor."

"Yep."

Spock refused to rise to the bait so obviously on display. He would not give Leonard the satisfaction of knowing he had managed to distract Spock yet again. If they were not careful, the entire ship would be aware of their relationship. Leonard, though, seemed unconcerned with potential ramifications. The man was positively indiscreet when it came to broadcasting his emotions, and at the moment, those emotions were all directed toward Spock.

Leonard's thoughts were becoming increasingly distracting. Spock shifted in his seat. The rustle of Starfleet-issue cloth in a soft, rhythmic pattern told Spock the doctor was bouncing on his toes again, growing impatient. If Spock did not react soon, Leonard was likely to do something completely imprudent simply to prove a point.

In accordance to Spock's theories on his state, Leonard said, "I mean it, Spock. Eighteen hours is too damn long for anyone to work, even you. Now, take a break before I have to relieve you." The voice was soft, precise. Leonard was only half-flirting, now. The rest was professional. The doctor was entirely honest about relieving him for his own good. Whatever happened afterward was to be considered a happy side-effect.

Bouncing again, faster, more agitated. Leonard did not wish to relieve Spock in front of all and sundry, but was willing to do so when confronted with such obvious benefits for both of them.

Spock rose, turning to look at Jim, who was seated in his chair, watching them with a half-smile. Before Spock could say a word, the Captain said, "Go on, Spock. Get some rest."

Spock nodded and turned on his heel. Leonard followed Spock to the turbolift, ostensibly to see his patient to his quarters. Spock was amazed that either of them made the passage across the bridge seem professional in nature.

The doors of the lift closed, and Leonard knocked Spock into the wall, mouth on his and hands under his shirt, cool human fingers tracing unintelligible patterns on Spock's sides. Spock gave himself over to the moment, content that Leonard had at least waited until they were in a semi-private area.

A second before the doors opened, Leonard pulled back. The doctor strolled by several crewmembers, who all looked at them askance. Their hair was mussed, their clothing rumpled, and Leonard was grinning from ear-to-ear, completely uncaring. Spock sighed and followed Leonard to his quarters.

Temperance

Len leaned back and surveyed his handiwork. Not bad. Not bad at all. Maybe a little excessive, but you only live once, so you damn well better live it up.

Spock lay on their bed (and, yes, Len did consider it their bed, no matter what Spock thought or whose quarters they were in) gasping. More specifically, trying not to gasp and failing spectacularly. The man looked like a landed fish. A splayed-out landed fish with arms. And legs. And other parts that Len was so damn glad he possessed. Hell, Len was no good at metaphor.

To put it simply, Spock looked like a man who really, really wanted some and wanted it right now but was too damn prim to say it. That was tonight's goal: get Spock talking. More accurately, get Spock begging. Get Spock to say all the things he thought.

Spock had a dirty mind. Len knew it, and Spock knew he knew it. Len had a vast range of experiences when it came to mind-melds by now, but dammit he wanted to hear Spock say what he wanted. Sometimes, he just wanted that little bit more. That tiny step to take things over the top. Spock preached moderation, but Len had about had it with moderation. He'd never done anything half-way.

He cocked his head, smirked and said, "So, Lover, how are we feeling today?"

"If you must ask, then I believe you're not doing something correctly," Spock said, shooting him irate glances. Bring it on, Spock. This train ain't moving until everyone's on board.

When Spock clammed up and just stared at him for more than two minutes, Len decided that a little motivation was called for. He began to lightly brush the green (and hot damn, but did green ever look so good to anyone else?) cock with his fingertips, not giving anything more than the hint of sensation.

Spock's eyes closed and his lips thinned and he actually squirmed. Progress in the right direction. "Leonard," he warned.

"Yes, Honey?"

"What are you waiting for?"

"Me? Well, I'm a simple man, Spock. A little direction now and then, a little instruction, it goes a long way."

"Move your hand."

Len removed his hand.

"That is not what I meant."

"No? Then you're going to have to be more specific, Spock. You, of all people, should know the value of precise and detailed planning."

Spock reached up, grabbed Len by the shoulder, hauled him down and whispered in his ear, "Take my cock in your hand and jerk me off, or use your mouth, which will give the added benefit of shutting you up. Of course, I would not object if you stopped fooling around and simply fucked me." Len's eyebrows shot up. "Now," Spock said, "I do not intend to repeat that, so I suggest you take my direction and use your mouth for more beneficial tasks."

Len grinned. "Sir, yes, sir."

Justice

The shuttlecraft leaked gas from every pore, thick, noxious stuff that would kill anyone inside in a very short time. McCoy had just run towards it, hearing the call for help, and now he skidded to a stop. Two crewmen were in that shuttle, and both of them were dying. And McCoy was the only other person on the planet.

McCoy's heart was in his throat. Spock was in that shuttle, dying or dead. McCoy dashed up to the door, palming it open and reeling back as the gas hit him. His eyes burned, and his lungs felt as thought they were being stabbed every time he coughed. Two men in that shuttle, breathing that air for the last thirty seconds, one of them his lover. By God in heaven, McCoy would find a way to get him out.

He didn't find Spock first, but found Lieutenant Miller, a pale little slip of a boy barely into his first tour of duty. Spock lay next to him, and both were pale, lips tinged blue with the lack of oxygen. Blood had leaked in thin streams from each of their mouth, indicating the serious hazard to their lungs. The tricorder said that they would each be dead in less than thirty more seconds, and that brain damage would occur sooner.

In that moment, McCoy realized that he could only save one of them. He just wasn't strong enough to drag them both out at the same time, and there was no one here to help. It was just him in here with the smoke and the fumes and the two people whose lives were in his hands. McCoy had to choose.

McCoy was kidding himself thinking there was a choice. Spock was the first officer. He had to save Spock before he saved anyone else. It was a privilege due his rank. Miller would have known that as he passed out, that Spock had to be saved first. Maybe he accepted that, maybe he didn't. Maybe he was scared and resentful and thinking of all the things he'd wanted to do with his little life that he never would accomplish now. Now that the CMO would choose to save his lover before he saved a helpless kid.

That's what it came down to: McCoy's lover. He could pin this rescue on rank all he wanted, but in the end he would save Spock because he was Spock, because McCoy was selfish and couldn't imagine living without his Vulcan by his side. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't a just sacrifice, but was one McCoy was willing to make. He forced himself to stare into that boy's face, forced himself to know precisely what he was doing, and to whom. Miller couldn't just be another statistic to McCoy. This was a child that McCoy sacrificed to save his lover. He stared at the boy until he was certain his tears weren't caused by the fumes, and then he reached down, grabbed Spock under the arms, and pulled him out of the shuttlecraft. He laid Spock out on the grass, on the flowers Miller had been fawning over in his own botanical way not two hours before, and he worked. He used every technique he could think of, and he saved Spock. No brain damage, no dying. Within a few days, Spock would return to normal.

When he was sure Spock would be all right on his own, McCoy got up and went back in the shuttle. The gas had cleared when he'd left the door open, and Miller was no longer masked by the fumes. He seemed small in McCoy's eyes, but then bodies always did: small and heavy and infinitely sad. This was a boy McCoy had killed, sure as if he'd released the gas himself. Didn't matter that he'd made the logical choice, didn't matter that Starfleet would approve of his actions, maybe even give him a medal for saving Spock, this was something deeply and abidingly wrong. And the worst part was that McCoy knew he would have never done anything differently.

Fortitude

"Oh, Hell no."

Spock looked up at Leonard, and saw the expression of horror. Leonard was not a man easily concerned, but when confronted with such a conflict, he was noticeably apprehensive. Spock attempted to see things from Leonard's perspective, and, upon failing, said, "I merely thought you would become tired of your routine."

"Spock, I like my routine. That's why I let it become my routine."

Spock refused to be disappointed. He had hoped that Leonard would be more open-minded, but he could not expect such change overnight. His lover was a stubborn man.

Leonard looked at him, his expression pained. "You worked hard at this, didn't you?" he asked.

"It was difficult procuring the necessary ingredients, yes." Spock would not say more. He did not wish to make Leonard feel difficult.

Leonard scratched the back of his neck and regarded the dish in silent horror. "Spock, I'm flattered. I'm really . . . flattered. But why this? Why Klingon?"

"You had once expressed an interest in learning about enemy cultures, so that they were no longer so alien. When I obtained this recipe, I thought of you." He didn't want to admit it, but he said, "I appear to have been wrong."

"No," Leonard said. "You weren't wrong. Of course I'll eat it." To emphasize his compliance, Leonard raised his fork and made a stab for one of the tentacles. It squirmed out of the way. "Jesus God!" he shouted. "It's alive!"

Spock watched, impassive. "Yes, the recipe did call for living specimens."

"I'm supposed to eat this stuff while it's still alive?" He paled. "It's going to wiggle all the way down!"

"The sensation is one of the key elements to this dish."

Leonard, his face fixed in a rigor of horror, set his jaw and nodded. He stabbed for the tentacle again and failed. He tried again. As the humans said, 'No luck'. Leonard growled at the stubborn appendage, and lunged, stabbing hard enough to upset the plate. Tentacles flew across the room and all over Leonard.

Leonard screamed, slapping at his off-duty shirt. "God, there's something in my shirt!"

Spock rose, attempting to discover where the tentacle had disappeared.

"Spock!" Leonard rasped, "it's squirming!"

Spock clapped a hand over the bulge in the fabric and Leonard made a choked noise. Spock untucked the shirt, drawing the cloth over the tentacle, which had attached itself to the small of Leonard's back.

There was nothing to do but rip it away. The tentacle came free with a deafening squelch, and Leonard let out a disgusted "ugh!". Several tiny suction marks remained speckled on his skin.

Spock looked at the tentacle, at Leonard, at the carnage slowly crawling across the floor, and sighed. Leonard straightened, turned to stare at the wriggling limb, and made a desperate retreat to the bathroom.

Spock looked at the creatures on the ground and decided that Ga'gh may have been too drastic a challenge for Leonard's cultural awareness. Perhaps they could find a fish tank. The tentacles were alive, after all, and Leonard had often expressed an interest in obtaining a pet.

Faith

Pain is usually an individual phenomenon, experienced by only one person. It cannot be properly explained other than by experience, and, thus, is not usually a communal activity. Sometimes, though, something so large happened that everyone understood pain.

Shamakal was a world in pain.

Len worked three days straight. No food. No rest. An occasional swallow of gritty, dusty water. There was dust everywhere, kicked up by the bombs. Damn fools and their bombs, as if nuclear winter was a solution to anything.

Everything turned gray with the dust, and the men and the women and the children who came into his emergency clinic were all gray. Even their blood had a fine coat of gray over top. He longed for any sort of sterility, but, lacking that, turned to soap, less dusty water, and alcohol. They would do until the rest of the Federation relief effort arrived the next day.

Len finished his final procedure, an amputation on a six-year-old girl. Her leg. Gangrene. Just a little girl, and already lost a leg to the damn war. What would she do when she grew up? Would she miss the leg? Would she even remember she'd ever had one in the first place? Or would she get caught in a fire on the way home and die before any of the other options came up?

The real hospital had burned a week before his arrival. He fell into a chair rescued from that old hospital, still reeking of the burning chemicals which had made the gutted building uninhabitable even to the city's numerous squatters. He fumbled at his belt and retrieved his canteen. Len uncorked the canteen and brought it to his lips quickly, before too much dust got into the water.

The liquid still tasted chalky, but it was good. Just sitting and drinking was good. Len was bone-tired, hungry, but he couldn't sleep and he couldn't eat. Not when such atrocities poured into his clinic and he had to amputate a six-year-old girl's leg on a Federation world.

That was the root of the problem: Shamakal was a Federation world. Len didn't put faith in too many things, institutions being one of the least reliable and most distrusted. Yet, despite his better judgment, Len had to admit that he believed in the Federation. He believed that there was something special about membership in that group. It made a planet better, more respectable, more sensible. Membership should have given a planet the same pride Len himself possessed.

And Shamakal, a Federation world of one-hundred-thirty years, had nearly bombed itself out of existence in a stupid territorial dispute. There had been warnings, pleas to the Federation Council to send mediators, but the problem had been discussed in a committee, and by the time a decision had been reached, Shamakal was too far gone. The bombs were already falling, and Starfleet had been called in to send relief and apologies for the delay.

Len wasn't sure what he believed in anymore. Faith was all well and good when it was easy. Out in space, on the edge of explored territory, where no one belonged to the Federation and everyone was dangerous, it was easy to look back on home through a tint of rose. Yes, far away from reality, faith was easy to maintain.

Shamakal reminded him of reality, reminded him that the universe isn't colored pink, but a horrible, uniform gray, and the Federation was composed largely of bureaucrats who sent 'apologies' to a world they'd delivered into hell. Shamakal wasn't blameless, but they'd asked for help and it had only arrived when they had blood to show.

Len let his body fold upon itself, pressing his face against the arms crossed on his knees. Couldn't sleep, but rest was good. Let those weary bones settle a bit.

"Leonard," a voice said. Len didn't need to straighten to know who it was.

"Spock," he said.

"I was told you were instructed to return to the ship and rest."

"Can't. Work to do."

"Leonard, you can do no work if you are too exhausted to think."

"I'm thinking fine, Spock. That's what's exhausting me."

Hands on his shoulders. Warm hands. Len smiled at the feeling of warmth. Shamakal was a cold planet. "I have come to take you back to the ship, Leonard," Spock said.

Len couldn't argue. He didn't have the gumption. He let himself be half-steered, half-carried out, calls of thanks and encouragement dimly heard from his comrades. They would keep working through the night. Len felt guilty for abandoning them, even if he'd worked the last two nights. And three days. He was the CMO. His job demanded he go above and beyond.

The transporter grabbed him, and for once, even the nausea of having his atoms scrambled was welcome. At least your feet don't hurt if you don't have them. Of course, the sensation only lasted for a second before he materialized in the transporter room.

The Enterprise smelled so good. No dust, just the smell of metal and cleanliness. Spock led him to his quarters, undressed him, and sent him into the shower. Spock didn't follow, which was alright. Len wasn't up for anything as it was.

He stood under the spray of water after he'd scrubbed himself down for the second time, and let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. If he'd really lost faith in the Federation, did that mean he'd lost faith in Starfleet? How could he function on a Starship without faith in the organization he served?

Spock retrieved him after a half-hour of standing under the water and staring at the ceiling. Len toweled off, pulled on some wonderfully clean pajamas, and let Spock guide him to the bed. Spock did follow this time, curling around Len in a sort of comfort.

Len wrapped his own arms around Spock and buried his face in the Vulcan's shoulder. This. He could function on a starship if he could have this, have friends, have his strange, irritating, amazing Vulcan lover.

Like so many things, Len found that faith was just another luxury he could do without. He wasn't happy about it. In fact, Len felt as though something within him died as he admitted he could live without faith. It was like admitting he could live without his wife, or live without solid, real ground beneath his feet. A little bit more of his humanity chipped away by the service.

Feeling Spock stroke his back and mentally start to soothe him, Len realized that he could live with this.

Hope

"Ow."

"The move is not as complex as you seem to think, Leonard."

"The . . . Spock! It's Vulcan Martial arts! Whose bright idea was it that I learn Vulcan martial arts?"

"This is a time-honored and venerable tradition of martial arts, Leonard. More than that, it is aptly suited to—"

"Whose bright idea?"

"Mine."

"Exactly. Spock, I'm physically fit, I know how to fire a phaser. I can right cross with the best of them. What more do you want from me?"

"I would like concentration, if that is not too much to ask. Now, extend your leg."

"Okay, this is kinky."

"Leonard."

"Sorry."

"Bend your knee and cant your foot."

"How the hell am I supposed to – OW!"

"Odd, Vulcans do not find this position exceptionally difficult to achieve."

"Then Vulcans are double, no, make that TRIPLE-jointed! I don't bend that way, Spock!"

"Very well, we shall try something else."

"Oh, hey, didn't we do this one last night?"

"Leonard, that is an inappropriate topic for public discussion."

"Ain't like we're inviting everyone to join in."

"I do not believe that anyone else could join us in this position. Or, at least, not without a significant amount of creative maneuvering."

"Why, Spock, that was positively dirty of you."

"You have become a very bad influence upon me."

"Oh, I don't know. If you've loosened up enough that we can get in a little cuddle in the middle of the – OW!"

"I apologize. It appears my hand slipped."

"'Slipped', my ass."

"Very well."

"Oh! Hey! Hands!"

"Would you like to continue this discussion, Leonard, or do you wish to return to your education in Vulcan martial arts?"

"I don't know, Spock. I'm sort of interested in just how much we could 'discuss' in the rec room. What do you say? Be one hell of an adventure."

"You are hopeless, Leonard."

"You bet your ass I am."

"Very well."

"Oh! Hey! Hands!"

Charity

Christine Chapel looked at the assembled senior staff and wondered why on earth she had been selected to attend this particular briefing. She wasn't on the command crew; Leonard would always tell her what happened if she needed to know.

This briefing, apparently, was different. This briefing was being held by Leonard and Spock, for reasons only they knew. Christine accepted her place and leaned back in her chair, face neutral and hands clasped loosely on the table in front of her.

Leonard stood up and Christine looked at him. Apprehension showed in his tense shoulders. He shouldn't do that. He was going to strain a muscle if he wasn't careful, and Christine hated having her boss as a patient. Doctors always thought they knew what was best for themselves, and they were terrible diagnosticians when it came to their own bodies. Leonard especially.

"Um," he said, "ladies and gentlemen, Spock and I thought it was about time we let you in on something." Christine's eyebrows drew together fractionally. Together? What could Leonard and Spock have to announce together? "If y'all," he paused to rein in his accent. "If you've been wondering why Spock and I have been acting a little odd lately, you haven't been alone. Plenty of other people have been wondering the exact same thing." He laughed, but the laughter died off. Christine felt her own shoulders tense. Leonard was going to say something huge, she realized, something to rock the entire ship. He looked right at her, and Chris thought she saw a tiny spasm of remorse skitter across his face. Her gut clenched and she thought she understood . . .

"Well," Sulu said, "are you going to tell us why, or just leave us in suspense?"

"What Leonard is attempting to say," Spock said, consequently looking anywhere but at Christine, "is that we have been lovers for the past two years."

Oh.

Oh, God.

Breathe.

Christine closed her eyes and thought about breathing, about the mechanics. Lungs expand and inhale. Lungs deflate and exhale. Oh, God. She opened her eyes, and Leonard was still watching her. "We're planning on getting officially hitched next week," he said.

Christine sat back and let the rest of the world do as it pleased. She wasn't surprised. She could admit that. In fact, the lure of Spock was that he was perfectly unattainable. A girl couldn't get hurt if the relationship never even took place. After her last, disastrous foray into love, she preferred unrequited love to the actual thing. Still, unattainable and unavailable had always been two different things.

Chris could never allow herself to lust after a married man. It sounded stupid, it sounded old-fashioned, but there it was. Who else, though, was as unattainable and as attractive as Spock? Where else could her affections be cast where they were as safe as they were with Spock? As untouched?

"Well, it's about time!" Nyota was saying.

Leonard's mouth dropped open. "What—Nyota, how the hell'd you know?"

Nyota laughed. "Len, what with the comm. traffic that's been flying between the two of you, and all the nights when one of your cabins has been empty, I'm surprised more people hadn't guessed." No one would have dared think it, Chris thought. Not of those two.

"Actually," Kirk said, his eyes twinkling in silent mirth, "Lieutenant Riley had a betting pool going on whether you were having a secret affair or planning a hostile takeover of the ship." A betting pool she had never participated in, thinking it foolish. Who would have believed . . .?

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Most illogical."

"You should have told me that before I bet five food credits," Chekhov muttered glumly.

"You bet on us planning a mutiny?" McCoy asked.

"It made more sense to me at the time," the Russian said.

"I told ye not to bet so much," Scotty said.

Nyota turned her smile toward the newly outed couple. "Well, congratulations. We are invited to the wedding, right?"

"Being that it will take place on the ship, we could hardly stop you," Spock said. On the ship? That was going to be the endurance trial to end all endurance trials.

Chris gritted her teeth. A voice in her head (which always reminded her of Leonard) said, 'You're a Starfleet officer, dammit! Pull yourself together and get happy for your friends. If you knew it would never happen, then this should be no problem, and any other expectation on your part would cast you as the helpless little girl, again! You promised yourself, Christine! You promised yourself you'd never be that girl again, so by God get a-hold of yourself."

"On the ship . . ." Scotty said, amazed. Then, he looked at the Captain. "Sir, you cannae tell me that you were in on this, too!"

"Sorry, Scotty."

"Och, well, I feel blind as a badger."

"If it helps," Sulu said, "I had no idea, either. Still, I suppose it makes sense . . . in ways I can't actually think of off the top of my head." His sparkling dark eyes let them know that he was joking. "Seriously, though, if it makes the two of you happy, then congratulations."

"Aye," Scotty agreed.

The captain rose, and with him everyone else. Was that it? Were they done? 'Congratulate them, you damn fool,' the little voice said.

Chris followed Nyota as she walked up to Leonard and clapped him into an embrace. "Congratulations, Len," she said, pulling away and smiling. "If anyone deserves a little marital bliss, you two do." And they did, Chris knew. They really did, and Chris' little fantasies were no reason to dampen the mood. She painted on a smile.

"Thank you, Ny," Leonard said. "It's been an interesting ride."

"I'd think so!"

"Now, you tell me what you meant by 'it's about time'!" He attempted to be gruff, but it came out with a huge grin. So typical of Christine's friend. "How long have you been onto us?" he asked Nyota.

"Three years," she said.

McCoy gaped. "Three—Nyota, we've only been together two!"

Her smile was sly. "That may be true, Sugar, but your chemistry's gone on a bit longer."

He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look huffy. The effect was spoiled by his grin. "So, how much did you win from the pool?"

"Why, Doctor McCoy," she gasped, affecting shock, "you know that a Starfleet officer would never wager on that sort of thing."

"Uh-huh."

"Twenty-three credits."

"Jesus!"

She kissed his cheek. "My extra desserts and I thank you, Len!"

"Well, I hope you're very happy together. Let me know when you'll be needing that antacid," McCoy said.

Nyota's laugher was musical as she moved off. Just Leonard and Christine, then. The moment was terribly awkward.

"Chris," he whispered.

Her face was rigid as she stated flatly, "Congratulations, Doctor."

'Oh, he definitely believed that,' the little voice goaded. 'Your performance was as sincere as it was convincing. Idiot.'

Chris gritted her teeth and hated the little voice for being right. She wished to high heaven he had a better place to have this talk, or at least somewhere a little quieter. Leonard dropped his voice and lightly touched his head nurse's shoulder. "Listen," he said, "you have to believe that this was just something that happened. I do love him."

That was it. That was the problem. Not because Spock was now unavailable, or at least, not entirely, but because it was Leonard. Because Leonard didn't lie, and when he said he loved someone, he meant it from the bottom of his little Georgian heart.

'Isn't that a good thing, though?' the voice asked. 'The man you love has a lover who is devoted and loyal, and more than that, you like and respect the man. So, that lover isn't you. You should still be glad. Let it go.'

Chris nodded. The little voice was right. She hated it, but she'd get over it. She was good at that. S pulled Leonard close and hugged him. Her voice was amazingly steady as she said, "I know, Doctor. I never even had a chance, anyway."

"We don't choose the people we love. Lord knows I'm the man who can attest to that. Lord knows you're the woman who can."

She chose to ignore that, even though she appreciated the acknowledgement. Chris used the most matter-of-fact tone she had, and said, "Don't hurt him, Leonard. I can't say I'm happy for the two of you quite yet, but I can say that much. If you're marrying him, don't hurt him. It wouldn't do."

"I guess it wouldn't, at that."

And then, the bottom edges of her eyes suspiciously shining, Christine Chapel pulled back, offered up a weak smile, and walked out of the room.

In her quarters, with the door locked so no one would discover her, Christine Chapel softly wept into her pillow. The fact that she never had a chance had, of course, been a fact she had known all along, but knowledge and an emotional acceptance were two very different things. She could not hate either of the men involved, either. She adored Spock, and McCoy had been a dear friend for far too long for some sort of childish spite and jealousy.

When it came time for her shift, Chris got up, got ready, took a deep breath, and was ready to face the world, tranquility firmly in place. She was a few minutes late for her shift, but Leonard didn't say anything, and neither did she. Christine expected nothing from him, and Leonard had nothing to give. They just got back to work.


End file.
